Nick Valentine, personal journals
by ladywyntre
Summary: I wrote this because Bethesda won't let me romance Nick Valentine in Fallout 4. Here is Nick's personal journal talking about his new partner and, yes, love. SPOILERS abound about the main plot. POV is Nick's, and he isn't always correct in his speculations. UPDATING. Now in process: a sequel based on the Far Harbor expansion.
1. Chapter 1

Nick Valentine

Personal journal

Dec. 12, 2292

Some radio DJ asked mid-broadcast if a synth could fall in love. I can't answer that question for anybody else, but I can answer it for myself. The exact moment I fell in love with her? I'm not sure. It may have been shortly after we started working together, perhaps when we were standing next to a pre-war terminal in some ruin south of Boston. I offered to hack it for her, but she gave me a half-smile and asked me to stand guard. I'd swear she was in faster than _I_ could've been. I think that's when I started to fall. But the moment I absolutely know is the moment I knew she loved me.

I don't need to sleep. She does. So I try to make sure she does, even when she wants to keep going. I usually stay nearby while she's sleeping, which is how I know that she talks in her sleep. Usually, she'd murmur "Shaun? Shaun…" a few times in the night. Heartbreaking. But normal, under the circumstances. A few times, I'd caught her mumbling "Nate…" And while that was often plaintive as well, there were four occasions—yes, I know how many. I'm a synth. I don't forget things—four occasions when her whispered "Nate" had a particular… shading that let me know she was dreaming of the pre-war time. When they were together and happy and… well, they did produce a kid, right? So you know what that means.

It was four years into our partnership, and she didn't want to sleep, and I planted my feet at her house in Sanctuary and folded my arms, telling her I wouldn't move until she slept. She'd been awake for over 30 hours and I could see it was compromising her judgment. She sighed and lay down, falling asleep almost immediately. And as usual, she dreamed. And not as usual, she said _my_ name. "Nick," she said, she _breathed_ it, and she smiled. She shifted in her sleep. I stood beside her, frozen, staring. I tried not to watch her sleep, usually—it's weird. Even I know it's creepy. But I watched her sleep, heard her call my name a few more times. I thought maybe she wasn't asleep, but she couldn't fake the REM eye movements. They were real. And she was calling my name… Kinda like she had called his. I didn't even realize that six hours had gone by when she woke up.

Look, she's no Jenny. Jenny was fragile and sweet, innocent even for an innocent time. Jenny had hair of gold and eyes of cornflower blue. She favored dresses with pretty patterns and loved it when I brought her fresh flowers. She'd been delighted when I—of course, I mean when _he—_ proposed. Sometimes I thought about her, remembering how she walked cheerfully through a field. _He_ had preferred the memories of Jenny when she was with him, laughing at his stories, delighted when she could make _him_ laugh… but I liked the memories of her from a little distance, like the time when she was dancing alone to some music I was too far away to hear. Or the time she had seen a little girl skin her knee, and she'd knelt by the girl and made it all better with a smile and a pat. Kids loved Jenny. I'd loved Jenny—well, _he_ had loved Jenny. The guys at the station loved Jenny. Everyone loved Jenny. Still hard to believe sometimes I'd never actually met her. The memory of her was that vivid. I swore— _he_ swore, at least, and it was one of the most sensible things he'd ever done, and he was right to do it, so I'm keeping that vow, too—that I would never bring another woman into this hardscrabble life. He'd been tempted a time or two. I hadn't been, not once. I might be the sum of his memories, but I didn't have exactly the same reactions.

But Sheila's no Jenny. I couldn't bring Sheila into a more dangerous life if I set out to do it. She was determined to take down the entire Institute, to move every scrap of debris in the Commonwealth, to do crazy things to get to her son, and all I can do is try to tag along and watch her back. So being involved with me… It doesn't put her in danger at all. If anything, being with _her_ puts _me_ in danger. And I can take it. So the vow doesn't apply here. Truth is, _he_ wouldn't have been attracted to her. Jenny needed him, and he needed to be needed. Does Sheila need me? She has choices. If I left, she'd get another partner in a heartbeat. I've seen people ask her if they can tag along. She doesn't _need_ me, strictly speaking. She _wants_ me. _He_ couldn't handle that, but it's exactly what I want. I also suspect that she wouldn't have taken _him_ along. Something about that means I want to stay even closer to her. She's _mine_ , not _his_. He'd never known her. He wouldn't have liked her this much even if he did. He wouldn't love to see the sun glinting off her ebony hair and he wouldn't have looked twice at dark eyes set in pale skin. No, she's not as pretty as Jenny was… but more beautiful, more elegant, more sophisticated.

Sheila's not innocent, not anymore. She might've been at one time… but I think she was never as innocent as Jenny. Even so? She's not _hardened_. It's hard to find someone in the Commonwealth who isn't hardened by post-war life. Everyone is cold. Or fake. Or somber. Or entirely unfeeling. You get a few folks who have hearts of gold underneath the cold, fake, somber iciness. But Sheila, as good as she is in a fight, doesn't have a cold exterior. She doesn't meet strangers. Jenny never met strangers either, but Jenny wasn't able to size 'em up. Sheila meets people, sees them for what they are, flaws and unsavory motives and all, and she still has compassion for them. Still treats them with kindness. When people notice this, she tells them it's because she lived before the war and remembers that world. But it's not. I lived before the war. I remember that world. Sure, the bullies weren't running things with guns and armor. They were running things from Congress and city council offices and sometimes, yeah, the police precincts. Still the same bullies, though. The war didn't exactly change anybody's nature. It just changed how close to the surface their true nature sits. If Jenny had somehow been moved forward in time, maybe through cryosleep like Sheila, she couldn't handle this world. Either she'd have to harden, or she'd die, or she'd have one of those breaks with reality that seem to be far too common. But Sheila changes the world instead of letting the world change her.

And when she woke up, instead of looking at me as if there were something wrong with me watching her sleep, she smiled at me. "Thanks for insisting, Nick," she said. I made some snide comment about needing her in top condition to watch my back, but she tilted her head and looked at me for a long moment. It was over eight seconds, not quite nine. And then she smiled again. She said, lightly, "I like you, too," and then walked past me. And that was when I knew that she knew that I loved her.


	2. Chapter 2

Nick Valentine

Personal journal

Dec. 22, 2292

Sheila's handling a few things with that Minuteman, leaving me back in Diamond City for now. You'd think I'd be upset, but I need some time to think about what she told me. I'm not sure I can move past it. I'm not sure I _want_ to move past it. Since I woke up in the Institute's trash, I haven't wished that booze still worked for me, 'til now. I could stand to be sauced for a bit, but this is the bad part about being a synth. Thoughts won't turn off. Can't sleep, can't even quite distract myself.

We were on the verge of getting sappy, just two drifters against the various pushes and pulls of the Commonwealth. She's had a finger in way too many pies. I thought she was trying to balance allegiances until she figured out where the kid is, but now I'm starting to see this habit more darkly, this tendency to insinuate herself everywhere she goes. Brotherhood knight, Minutemen general, Railroad whatever the hell she is—and now, she's even doing a side job or two for the Institute? Something wasn't adding up. And then she told me. Still can't believe it.

Back before the war, things were clear. I knew who the good guys were. I knew who the bad guys were. People liked to talk about nuance even then, but maybe for cops it's easier to keep it simple. I remember this one case clearly. Eugene Watts. Dated a little bird and put her into a coma, killed her mom and dad and brother. My partner and I, we worked the case. We sent up the evidence to prosecution. Nice and tight, clean and clear and obvious. Witnesses placed him there. That new luminol stuff revealed blood on the clothes in his house—way too much blood. We knocked his head in the office and got him to sing a confession, easy. But when we went to court, the guy's lawyer was a master of twisting everything. Confession? Inadmissible. Witnesses? Unreliable. Blood on the clothes? He hit a dog with his car and tried to save it. Seriously. Luminol just said there was blood, didn't say whose. So the lawyer with a straight face told the jury it was dog blood. Right. The jury bought him. Maybe they liked the slicked-back hair and bow tie. Maybe they were just mad at us police. They wouldn't be the first. But Watts went free, totally off the hook for everything he'd done, smirking at me on his way out of the courtroom… and I just sat there like a meatball. An angry meatball, but a meatball.

So Sheila and I are spending the night in one of the settlements when we start talking about the good old days. It felt good to talk to someone about what baseball was really like. She told me about dating her husband at the drive-thru, some movie she remembers seeing about war, and how she worried that it bothered him. Then she dropped the bomb on me. She kept talking, and I wasn't listening anymore. I couldn't have been more gobsmacked when the _actual_ bombs dropped. 'Cause this dame I've fallen for? She's the enemy. Of all the things she could've done before the war… she was a _lawyer_.

And this brings me back to being concerned about her post-war choices. Never met a stranger, I wrote before. That's rich. How the hell do you work for both the Institute and the Brotherhood of Steel? And then add the Railroad? _And_ the Minutemen? And she does odd jobs for people in Good Neighbor, and those kooks in Cabot? And actually, anybody else we meet around? This is going to sound nuts, which is why I'm not telling anyone about my suspicions, but I'm starting to think she wants to take over the whole Commonwealth.

I'd feel a damn fool if I let a nice pair of gams blind me to someone slowly becoming a major player in the morass of the Commonwealth, but I have to go with my gut. My gut says she's good because she's done nothing but good… and she's compassionate. She's been a force for good. I've tried to calm myself down and remember that it's about what people _do_ , not what people _are_. I know that more than anybody—of course I do. And what she's done is a helluva lot of good. That trick she did for the Institute was nothing more than taking down raiders. The Brotherhood's had her shooting supermutants and ferals. The Railroad's had her helping synths like me who haven't done anything wrong escape from people who want them dead or wiped (upgraded models, yeah, but ultimately? Synths like me). And the Minutemen… she's been helping settlements gain defense and self-sufficiency. So if I cut through the BS and just look at what she's done and not who's asking—or paying—her to do it… it's gold. _She's_ gold.

Hell, just watching how she handled that feral ghoul that knew her before the war… he was nobody before the war and is still nobody today, but she treated him like somebody. Spoke kindly to him. Offered him a place to belong, a job, a home, a life. Nobody paid her for that. Nobody else cared about that ghoul one way or another. Of course, if she needed that ghoul, he'd give his life for her now. And he's working for her now. Not even for caps, just for a bed and some kindness. And _that's_ what gives me pause.

Last thing the Commonwealth needs is some damn lawyer charming up the place like they're Eugene Watts's jury. Now I'm arguing in circles with myself. If I don't stop ruminating on this, I'll really have myself convinced that she's trying to consolidate power, and that's not the vibe I get from this dame. I've been with her for weeks at a time, every moment, barely turning my back for her to do her business. You can pretend to be kind for kicks now and then, but you can't fake it all the time.

If anyone _could_ fake it all the time, though, it'd be a lawyer.

I gotta think about this some more.

Sheila's going to have to make some decisions. Soon these groups are going to ask her for more than the kinds of missions she'd take on anyway. I'm going to watch her. She said she'd be back in a couple of days. I'm torn between asking her about all of this and playing it closer to the vest. Love aside, I have to protect the Commonwealth. I just hope I don't have to protect it from her.


	3. Chapter 3

Nick Valentine

Personal Journal

December 28, 2292

It seems I worried for nothing—mostly.

Sheila's making her stand and has chosen her alliances. She's betraying the Brotherhood and she's on the inside of the Institute to spy for the Railroad. She said something about not blowing her Institute cover yet and needing to tell me some things about them when she's ready to talk about it. But the situation is increasingly complex.

Take Danse (no please, take him). Pain in the neck, if not lower. But I can't help but feel sorry for the idiot. Talk about self-hating. Bad mess, that. But it's worse than just being his very own personal tragedy. People all over the Commonwealth are afraid that synths are replacing their loved ones, friends, elected officials… but if they knew about this? That they themselves might be synths and not even know it? The paranoia would reach new heights. Damn the Institute for that alone.

When she came back last week, I confronted her, told her that I needed to know where her endgame was heading, whether she thought she could just indefinitely balance all her alliances. That's when she let me know that things were coming to a head even faster than I thought… That the Brotherhood has assigned her to wipe out the Railroad. "The Railroad and the Minutemen, that's where my loyalties are now," she said, making it clear. She brought up loyalties, so I asked if she had any leads on Shaun. She was quiet, closing her eyes. "Just can't talk about it," she finally said. I wish I could go down to the Institute with her, provide her support and another pair of eyes and ears. But that device she uses lets only one through. Just as well. Maybe the Institute wouldn't like their trash walking back in. Anyway, I suspect the Institute is letting her see just enough of the kid to keep her on a tight leash to do their dirty work. I don't want to play my ace yet, and hopefully I won't have to, but if she starts to go too far for them, I'll pull out the big gun.

I'll ask her if she thinks it's good that the Institute has turned her into their new Kellogg.

Low blow? Absolutely. But the Institute isn't above low blows itself. They killed her husband and stole her kid right in front of her. I trust she hasn't forgotten that part.

Given everything we've been through, I asked her if she'd like to take a day or two off—maybe go to one of the settlements, maybe stay in Diamond City and not leave home. I told her I'd stay with her or leave her alone as she chose. She was about to brush off the suggestion when I pointed out the date—Christmas Eve. I suggested we go to Sanctuary Hills, but she didn't want to go there. We stayed in her Diamond City pad instead. The place she bought is bigger than mine. Noisier, too, but it has a nice little balcony with a few chairs where you can overlook the whole market district. I walked her to the doorstop and was going to leave her alone, but when I tipped my hat and started to go, she took my hand. "Don't," she said. "Stay," she said.

"Ah, you don't want to be alone on Christmas?" I asked, walking in and closing the door behind us, not wanting to show how pleased I was. _I_ didn't want to be alone on Christmas.

"I wouldn't mind, but I would rather be with you," she said. I don't have internal organs, but I'd swear I felt my heart flip. I remembered how coy Jenny could be. She played the game, kept _him_ guessing, pretended she could live without him until she'd thoroughly reeled Nick in. She wouldn't always answer when he called, even if she was right beside the phone. When they were dating, she wore nonchalance like I wear this trench coat. _He_ found Jenny's games endearing, but it's not what I would want. The direct "I want you," spoken without guile or artifice, it moves me. So I looked at her and she looked at me. I reached up with my exposed hand, the one without even the semblance of skin. My fingers traced the line of her cheek—so beautiful. She leaned into my touch… even though it's the touch of skeletal metal fingers. She leaned into my hand.

Looking back at that moment, I'm not sure what possessed me. Before she could react, I scooped her up, one arm under her back and the other under her knees. I took her to the couch where I gently set her down upright. I took one of her blankets and set it around her before taking a seat next to her. She shook her head, set the blanket to the side, and crawled into my lap, tucking her head under my chin like a child. I waited but a moment to start stroking her hair. It seemed that touching her face and picking her up opened the floodgates, and she would no longer be denied the proximity she craved. She whispered my name, and I said, "I'm here. And I'll be here."

Most of the time, I curse whoever built me to have touch sensations. Usually, touch for me is pain—too often involving someone shooting at me. But in that moment, I realized I would take a hundred bullets and be grateful as it enabled me to also feel the fineness of her hair. To hold her and know how exquisitely soft she felt was worth the pain of a thousand injuries. She stayed in my lap for over three hours while I combed my fingers through her hair, over and over, memorizing her tiny sounds of breath and heartbeat. When she finally fell asleep, I stood, cradling her and carrying her to bed. She stirred, and I stroked her hair again until she settled back. The truth is, I found myself continuing to touch her hair long after her deep, even breaths indicated that she was well asleep.

Easily the best Christmas Eve in recent memory. We spent two more days in her Diamond City home talking about nothing. She especially likes hearing about my old cases. Won't lie… still a bit disgusted that she was a lawyer. One of these days I'm going to have to ask her more about that—sometime when the answer won't matter so much. Worse, I'm also going to have to ask her why she wants a half-broken Institute-rejected synth when she could have someone flesh and blood—or hell, if she's into synths, one of those new models with pristine skin, one much less battered than a synth born in a dumpster.

God forbid I enjoy being happy and just try not to screw it up.

I always have to understand. It eats away at me until I do. That's how I got into this line of work in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

Nick Valentine

Personal journal

January 11, 2293

In my journal entries, I've tended to emphasize the tender moments, perhaps because those are the ones I want to remember and dwell on. Truth is those moments are relatively rare… unlike people shooting at me, which is starting to become a theme lately. I think it's the company I keep. I do wonder if my partner has a death wish.

The people around her seem to want her to have a death wish, anyway. Sometimes I want to shake this eager beaver Garvey. Thanks to him, Sheila's the leader of the Minutemen. Despite their past issues, their goals remain good, and he rightfully recognized that he wasn't really fit to lead any kind of group. Every time we see him, though, he has another list of people for Sheila to help. He barely says thanks and seems to have no interest in giving her downtime and letting her breathe for a moment. Last time we were at the Castle, I pulled Preston aside and told him that while _I'm_ a synth, _she_ isn't. She'd never ask him for it, but she shouldn't have to ask: give the woman a damn break. He said he understood and would "only" give her one settlement to handle, one that had a kidnapping. He told me he couldn't trust anyone else to actually get the prisoner out alive, and I had to agree. But the packs of feral ghouls that emerge, the raiders that take up near settlements—dammit, it's supposed to be Minute _men_ , not Minute _one woman who takes just one early model synth with her_. What if something happens to her? If these folks don't learn that they can fight for themselves, they'll fall apart. She's not immortal. One of these days, her life is going to catch up with her. One gunman gets one lucky shot, and she's gone.

Yeah, I keep reminding myself of that, too. Not sure it's working.

Sheila's one of the best snipers I've ever seen, and she sees people coming before they see her. It's how she's stayed alive. The gun she uses bears no resemblance to what it was when she first got her hands on it. It's like that old saw about great grandpa's hammer—it's been in the family for generations. Sure, it's had four new handles and two new heads, but it's still our great grandpa's hammer. And sure, that gun's the same gun she picked up from the vault when she woke up from deep freeze. It just has a new receiver, new barrel, new grip, new magazine, new muzzle, and new sights. And each one has been replaced at least twice. Same gun, though, right?

Yesterday, I asked her if she was sure Nate was the war veteran and she was the lawyer. See, we were rescuing that settler, and it was five raiders holding her hostage. With me watching her back, Sheila sneaked into their hideout and took out five raiders with five silenced shots before even one of them realized she was there. She admitted Nate had taught her to shoot, but she hadn't been very good at it.

"War never changes," she told me, "but war changes everything else." I disagree with both of those statements—as she knows. She was trying to start something, and I let her. We debated it all the way back to the Castle. She does in fact argue like a damn lawyer. I knew what she was doing. She's been avoiding things by playing Preston's gofer—and by things, I mean the Institute. And the Brotherhood and the Railroad.

We walked back, arguing the whole way. At least it was the good kind of argument, the kind that makes you feel more alive and brings you together even as you disagree on important matters. It's the kind of argument where you understand that the _most_ important thing is that you respect each other enough to try to convince each other, believing that it's possible and worthwhile. The walk took over six hours. I thought about letting her get away with it. But just as the Castle came into view, I took her arm and stopped. "Hold up," I said.

"Yeah, Nick?"

"You can't avoid it all forever. Do you need to talk about it?"

As my words registered, I'd swear she aged about two decades. "Not yet," she said. She closed the eyes that suddenly looked tired. "I… we're building something here, the Minutemen. And they haven't asked me to kill anyone except raiders—and not just any raiders, but raiders actively threatening settlements of peaceful people. If this is me avoiding things, maybe I _should_ avoid them. Forever." That means the Institute, the Brotherhood, the Railroad—they've all asked her to kill people who weren't actively harming other people.

"I'm here. I'll do whatever you need," I said. What else was there to say? I could've reminded her about Shaun, as if she didn't remind herself several times a day. No, no need for that.

Her eyes opened, and we looked at each other. "I know," she said. "And I'm grateful." Once again, I touched her face, as lightly as I could, almost not making contact at all. Almost. She turned her head and kissed my fingers as lightly as I touched her, then resumed walking to the Castle. "Preston!" she called, waving. "Rescued that settler!" He turned and waved back as we approached.

"You're a wonder," he said, smiling. "Great job."

"What's next?" she asked.

"Got something a little different for you this time," Garvey said, quickly looking at me before looking back at her. I started to grimace before he continued. "We need you here, at the Castle."

She blinked. "Surely no one's been kidnapped…"

"No, no, nothing like that. But the Minutemen need you here for a few days. For morale. And training."

"For morale and training?" she asked, obviously doubtful.

"Yes, and that look on your face tells me I haven't had you here enough. As the General of the Minutemen, you have a responsibility to the volunteers. That… ah… _Paladin_ you left here has been trying to train the recruits, but he lacks a certain patience with them that you have. He also lacks the ability to inspire them that you have."

Danse walked up then. "Good, you're back. We need to talk about these recruits."

Danse annoys the hell out of me. His _face_ annoys the hell out of me, so I spoke up. "Garvey says you've been terrorizing them?"

"Valentine, this doesn't concern you. Furthermore—" He was about to say more, but Sheila cut him off.

"All three of you, stand down." There was some humor in her voice as she shook her head. I took a little comfort knowing that what triggered her to take charge was Danse trying to order me around. "Nick, take a powder. Danse, I'll meet with you in an hour. Preston, let's go talk about exactly what you want me to do."

I waited for her to walk off with Garvey before I turned to Danse. "Did you want to say something to me?" I asked him. I am _not_ taking guff from that self-hating synth.

He stared down at me before stomping away. At least, I think he was stomping. It's hard to tell in that enormous suit he wears. Bet he's compensating for something.


	5. Chapter 5

January 14, 2293

I think this is good for her, staying for a while at the Castle. I know it's good for the two dozen Minutemen she's training (along with Garvey, and unfortunately, Danse). There's an easiness to them now that wasn't there three days ago. The first night we got back, Sheila confided in me that she wasn't sure about this—that she was afraid she'd get bored. I knew what she meant, and it had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with having time to think. She doesn't want to think right now, but if she spends a few minutes without shooting at something, convincing someone else to do something, hacking terminals, or breaking into locked rooms… well, she starts thinking, and then she's remembering Nate and worrying about Shaun all over again.

It's surprised her that there's enough here to _easily_ keep her busy.

Since I woke up a synth in a dumpster, not sleeping has meant that I have more time than others—time to think about things. Things like… why does Danse sleep? Does he actually sleep when he lays down and closes his eyes? Do all third gen synths sleep? Sometimes I miss sleeping, but I'm glad Danse sleeps. For about a third of the day, he's not annoying me or anyone else.

If Danse thinks he's going to turn the Minutemen into some kind of branch of the Brotherhood, he's wrong. I've seen Preston watching him, rightfully suspicious. Every morning, first thing, Danse monopolizes Sheila, taking her on a hike around the Castle perimeter, trying to convince her that they need more fortifications. Then he _does_ terrorize the recruits, even if Garvey is too polite to say so directly. Danse drills them hard. Most of them have barely heard of the military, much less been part of it. If it were helping, I'd ease off, but I think he just barks orders at them and expects them to follow. It's not teaching them anything. They need to be learning guerilla tactics—stealth in, hit key targets, blend in with the enemy—not going in guns blazing marching in single-file. Orders for the sake of orders—it's the problem with the Brotherhood, the problem with Danse, and the problem that we'd better not start having here.

I went up to Danse after everyone had lunch today. "Valentine," he said, folding his arms.

"It occurred to me," I told him, "that you came here after we'd already secured the Castle."

"Are you implying that I don't have the right to be here?"

"Not at all," I said, turning away from him and looking toward the recruits training with Shelia on the field. "It just occurred to me that you might not know about the tunnels that run underneath."

"Tunnels?"

"Tunnels. Pretty extensive. Still some gear down there, I believe. Several fortifications, some tech."

"If this is a trick…"

"You think it's a trick that I'm telling you there are tunnels under this place? They should still be safe. Sheila, Garvey, Shaw and I cleared them out completely. Just figured as you're one of those military types, you probably want to know the defenses of the place where you're… stationed."

"Do you expect me to thank you?"

"No, Danse, I don't expect anything resembling politeness out of you."

He walked off. And he found the tunnels, exploring them until well after dinner. And the good people of the Castle were Danse-free for an entire afternoon and evening. You're welcome, Minutemen. I'm here to help.

Tonight, I was watching the sun as it set over the Commonwealth, sitting on the edge of the westernmost parapets. As a kid, I always wanted to look directly at it but never could. Now I can. It's the little things…

She came and sat down beside me. I put my hand between us, and as I'd hoped, she moved hers to touch mine.

"I used to love sunrise," she said. "Now I love sunset more. Maybe it's just that we've made it through another day. It's much easier to be relieved by that than excited about a new day. A new day just means more work now."

I looked down at our hands. Sunsets I've seen plenty, but Sheila's hand in mine? That's worth seeing and remembering. "Every new day is the day you might be reunited with your son."

She was quiet, and I didn't talk over her silence. When the sun was a sliver of smoggy gold, she sighed. "I've seen him, Nick. I… I'm not ready to talk about it, really, but I'll say this. He's older than I am. The little boy Kellogg was ferrying around—he was a synth. My *son* has grey hair and wrinkles. And… he wasn't exactly reared with the values Nate and I wanted to teach him. Oh, and he's dying."

What can anyone say to that? "So you're grieving the loss of his childhood, and whatever he is, he's been reared by the Institute." She nodded once, not even looking at me. After a moment, I sighed. "When you're ready to talk, I'm here, Sheila. And until then, I'm still here."

"You don't know what you've meant to me, Nick." I could hear the passion in her voice, and it thrilled me. "Everything would be… much different without you. I'd have made… much different choices. But thanks to you, I know that a synth life is worth as much as a human life."

I'm not given to make wild declarations of my feelings, but I did move closer to her and pull her toward me, keeping what passes for an arm around her. And that's how we watched the sunset… her head against mine, one of the most perfect moments I can remember.


	6. Chapter 6

January 21, 2293

Sheila's been gone for about two days. She told me before she left that she had "some business to handle," she fiddled with her PipBoy, and then she disappeared. Right in front of me. Disappeared.

I immediately told Preston and Danse what happened. Danse kindly suggested that I'm malfunctioning, only it wasn't kind and wasn't precisely a suggestion. I resisted the urge to tell him where he could put his suppositions and simply directed my conversation at Preston. One of these days, Danse, one of these days.

"She just… disappeared?" Preston said.

"Maybe she'll be back soon. I would love to hear the explanation," I said.

"She's probably around now," Danse snapped. "I'll go find her."

"There's nothing we can do for the moment," Preston said, a little more nicely. "Er… keep me updated?"

"Will do, chief," I said, realizing that he wasn't completely believing me, either.

It wasn't something I did often, but I ran—literally—back to Diamond City. One foot in front of the other, stopping for no one, taking rare advantage of being a tireless synth. But when I arrived, it was a fruitless journey. I checked in with Ellie briefly—no new cases. For once, I was pleased about that. But then I went to talk to Piper. I asked her if she had come across cases of anyone literally disappearing, as in being there one second and gone the next. She rummaged around her files and raised one up, inviting me to take a look.

 _Constance Merrit, June 18, 2290. Says she lived alone with her husband Tyler near Jamaica Plain, southwest of Diamond City. Came to the city to live more comfortably after he was taken. Not sure if he was actually kidnapped by Institute or if he just died. She *claims* he was standing next to her in front of a tato plant, showing her where some large bites on the leaves suggested bloatflies had been by, and then suddenly he wasn't. He wasn't there. She claims he just disappeared completely, right in front of her. This is the clearest case of Institute kidnapping there's ever been. Or this is the saddest case of a woman who can't admit that her husband died. Or it's the most unnerving case of a woman snapping—hell, I have no proof that Tyler ever existed. I want to believe her, but nobody else has ever seen someone just disappear like that, and if the Institute has_ that _kind of power, then_ really _nobody is safe. Hell, if the Institute could do that, I'm sure I'd have been a goner by now. So I thanked Constance, wrote this up for my files, and left it out of Publick Occurrences. For now, anyway. I have some_ real _leads I need to track._

I looked up at Piper. "I want to talk to Constance," I said. She looked surprised, then shook her head.

"Died," she said. "Last year."

And so ended the one witness that might've been a lead on disappearing people. With Piper's help, I went down and found where Constance had slept in the city—but her things had already been picked over and were gone. I then ran to Jamaica Plain and did a perimeter sweep, finding two likely-looking houses where a couple might have lived in reasonable safety for some time. Nothing useful in either location—nothing even enough to pin down which of them might've had Constance and Tyler. If Tyler existed.

Defeated, I ran back to the Castle, hoping that Sheila had returned and all was well. Danse accosted me immediately.

"Where did you take her, you son of a—"

"Nice to see you, too, Danse." Preston walked over and, as usual, I addressed him without looking at Danse. "I've been trying to find other instances of someone disappearing in front of someone else. Found one, but it didn't pan out."

"There's been no sign of her here," Preston admitted grimly.

"One of two things is true," I said. "Either she was taken against her will or she was taken *by* her will. She's been working for the Institute—"

"Lies!" Danse yelled. "You've taken her somewhere and now you're trying to besmirch her good name—"

I had finally had enough.

"Danse," I said, "time to grow up and act like an actual paladin. You don't like me because I'm a synth and you hate synths. I get that. The whole Commonwealth gets it. They've probably heard about it in the Capital Wasteland. I've let it go. But now you're throwing temper tantrums like a child, you're hurling accusations at the person who brought this problem to your attention, and it's time for you to consider that maybe you aren't the only synth in the world who's one of the good guys. I was a cop before the war. Why I woke up a synth, I don't know. I'll probably never know. But I'm the same guy I was then, and you. You need to lay off me, set your hate aside, and work with me on behalf of the person we both care about. Cappesh?"

Danse was about to retort when Preston put a hand on his shoulder. He had to reach up to do it, and Preston isn't short. "Nick's right, Danse. He's right. Rules can have more than one exception."

"Sheila is _not_ working for the Institute. She's still Brotherhood."

I closed my eyes. "The Institute has Shaun, Danse."

He looked at me. "She thought that, but—"

"She knows. The Institute has him. She's seen him. She's talked to him." I hoped she'd forgive me for revealing this secret.

"Then we need to rescue him! She's found a way in?" Whatever else Danse is, he's a man of action.

"I think that's where she went when she disappeared," I explained. "What I don't know is if she went of her own accord or if they just… tapped her. Took her."

Preston looked away, thinking. Then, he spoke. I think Danse and I have a tacit agreement that Preston is in charge when Sheila's gone. Probably being at the Castle has something to do with it. "Then we wait for her. We give her a week. If she's not back in a week, we can assume she's not coming back and we'll need to find our own way into the Institute to rescue her. Nick… That's probably going to be on you. It's a detective's job."

"I think the Railroad may be able to help," I said. "I'll set out tomorrow to ask them."

From Danse's expression, he didn't like the Railroad any more than he liked me, but he bit back his insults and nodded curtly. That's the best I was going to get from him.


	7. Chapter 6A

January 22, 2293

"Maybe she just put on a StealthBoy and walked away," Deacon suggested, leaning back against one of the pillars in the Railroad HQ.

I looked at him. "Number one, Sheila isn't you and wouldn't do that for the fun of it. Number two, she's far too sensible to waste a resource like that. Number three, she's too smart to go anywhere alone."

"But maybe she—"

I held up a finger. "Most importantly, number four, I could see her activating it if she were; I was looking right at her. She fiddled with her PipBoy, not with a stealther. Do you think I'm an idiot, Deacon? Don't answer that. I've reviewed the memory, and there was no StealthBoy. She also wasn't wearing any armor—she was wearing a dress."

Deacon and Desdemona looked at each other and frowned.

"Not a Stealth Boy, then," Desdemona said decisively. "Probably she returned to the Institute."

I nodded. "But did she do it of her own free will, or was she _taken_?"

"You said she touched her PipBoy. The Institute has given her the means to transport there, and they linked it to her PipBoy. Signs point to her deliberately going there."

I nodded, not even sure if this was good news or bad. "Okay. That much I hadn't known. Thanks."

" _We_ didn't give her a current mission there," Des continued, exchanging another glance with Deacon. "If Preston and Danse both don't know what she's doing—"

"Still could be a Brotherhood request," I said. "Danse isn't exactly on the inside with them anymore."

"Could be," Deacon said, "but it's just as likely a Sheila thing. She's got her own agenda, after all. Wait her out. If you trust her, you trust her. And here, we trust her."

I couldn't argue, so I didn't. I went back to the Castle.

Preston and Danse accosted me immediately.

"Did you find out anything useful?" Preston asked.

"Yeah. We already knew the Institute has given Sheila a way to teleport there. What we hadn't known is that it was through her PipBoy. So when she touched it after telling me she would be back… she probably teleported there by her own free will. But the Railroad didn't assign her to do anything there, and obviously the Minutemen haven't asked for anything from the Institute. It could be the Brotherhood, but… it may not be. Deacon thinks she's got personal business up there, and… well, given what we know, that seems likely. He suggests we wait her out."

"Which is what we've been doing," Preston agreed. "Good. Thank you for looking into this, and when she gets back, we'll have some words about her checking in and not going anywhere without someone else. Our General needs to have a care for her life and recognize that she's got responsibilities to others now."

"You tell her that, because I won't," I said.

"Yes, she needs someone who won't tell her, Valentine, but she also needs someone who will. I'll be the one who reminds her of the responsibilities she accepted." Preston is sometimes wiser than I give him credit for.

Danse frowned, perhaps because he knows he will never be the one who doesn't remind her of responsibilities.

I walked off to collect my thoughts and update my journal. Funny to think I'm keeping a terminal here at the Castle now.

 _Author's note: BenRG had a legitimate criticism, but here's my answer… Also, I anticipate only 4-5 more chapters before this fic is finished. I never thought other people might be interested in reading it._


	8. Chapter 7

January 24, 2293

She's back.

Sheila came back this morning while about two dozen of us were eating breakfast. Coming in from the Castle courtyard, she sported red eyes and purpose in her step, and the lecture Preston had planned for her retreated, at least for the moment.

"Good to see you back," I said simply. "You had us worried."

She acknowledged my comment with a crisp nod and cleared her throat. "Ronnie, Danse, Preston… Nick. I need to speak with you all. Let's go to the briefing room in the tunnels." We were all silent as she led us there, gestured for us to speak, and stood before us.

"While I was away, the Minutemen have been on my mind." Just that quickly, our anxiety didn't fade so much as it was shoved away in her presence. When she starts speaking, everyone listens. She has some ineffable combination of striking beauty, fiery eyes, and a commanding demeanor. While she was gone, we wrung our hands over her like she's a delicate princess. But she's not, as we are quickly reminded when she looks at us. She's a pre-war lawyer with a gift for sniper work. It's rare to see someone that competent in a fight—and that inspiring outside of fighting. She's magnetic. Preston knew it and made her the face of his movement. Danse knew it and recruited her for the organization he loved above all else. Deacon recognized it and pulled her into his cause. The Institute apparently knew it first. Perhaps they took her kid hoping he would have a tenth of her charisma. Based on what she's told me, perhaps he does. And me, I wasn't compelled to ask her to join me. Rather, I was compelled to join _her_. Anyway, she gave one hell of a speech to the four of us.

"The Minutemen have a name in the Commonwealth again for the first time in years. Still, Danse has been right that we're not well-organized. That's to be expected when we're building from the ground up, but we're starting to post sizeable numbers. We need some discipline, some procedures." She raised a finger as Danse was getting a smug look on his face that I did _not_ like. "However, we are _not_ the Brotherhood of Steel. Minutemen do not and _should_ not leave their lives behind to join us. They join us _because_ of their lives and their families. So we need to think about that as we create our organization. I want to deploy the Minutemen to actively check on settlements rather than wait until there's a problem."

Sheila tapped her PipBoy to display a map of the Commonwealth on the wall. "All of our volunteers—once trained—will be sent to tour in groups of three. Six months on tour, two months here at the Castle, and four months at home, wherever that is for them. Each settlement should be encouraged to send at least one resident into the Minutemen. Ideally, however, as we come into our own, each settlement will send *three*. As settlements get larger, that's not unreasonable. With three Minutemen coming from each settlement and staggering their four months there a year, we will always have a trained Minuteman in every single settlement. Ideally? This becomes a rite of passage in the Commonwealth. When you reach adulthood in a stable settlement, serve with the Minutemen for a few years. Some would probably stay, though most wouldn't. But we'd essentially be giving combat training to the good folks of the Commonwealth. In one generation, we'll make settlements _much_ less attractive to raiders. Because that's the ultimate goal, my friends. We are transforming the Commonwealth one settlement at a time. And what we are transforming it _into_ …"

She turned away from us, looking at the map instead. "What we are transforming it into is a place where it's impossible to kidnap someone's child without the entire community coming together to make it right… and punish those responsible. We aren't trying to make a single Commonwealth government. But we _are_ making a network. A web. Traders should be safe traveling, and settlements should be free to prosper without fear of attracting undesirable attention." She turned back to us, looking each of us in the eyes. When she does that, it's impossible to deny her anything.

"Each of you has a crucial role to play in this plan. I'm not always here. When I'm not, Preston is in charge of the Minutemen. What he says goes. What decisions you make, Preston, I'll back up. And I expect you to stay at the Castle. I'll be here frequently but not always… and eventually, you need to take it over. Not yet. You aren't ready yet. But you will be. I'll help you get there, and then you'll lead them with the quiet wisdom that you've displayed every time we've talked since I met you." After his stunned, slow nod, she turned to Shaw. "Ronnie, you're the historian of the Minutemen. That job is more important than any of us realized… and it needs to expand. We don't just need history of the Minutemen. We need history of the Commonwealth itself and of everything that led to it. This is your task. You'll need to identify Minutemen who are well-suited to be historians themselves. This is a tradition we need. Sometimes we'll gather and you'll tell us stories—stories of things you lived through, stories that you've heard from others." Shaw gave a crooked smile and a half-nod. She was in.

Sheila took a swig of cola and turned to Danse. "The Brotherhood have cast you out, and you know what I think about that decision. I know you aren't comfortable thinking about what's happened, but I'm telling you right now, the Minutemen need you. The Minutemen need you to take over training, and we need you to be smart about it. You need a plan to take green recruits and in two months, get them ready to defend their homes and travel through the Commonwealth in relative safety. They need to learn how to work in small teams and how to make the most of their weapons and resources. Will you do this for us? Will you finally join the Minutemen?" She leaned forward and locked eyes with him. I suspect it's how she locked eyes with jury members back in the day. "Will you pledge yourself to the Minutemen the way these two have?"

I don't think I've ever seen Danse that happy. Joy rolled off him as he nodded and saluted. Truth is, that man is happiest when someone is giving him orders. He can lead and lead well—if someone he respects has told him to lead. He didn't say it aloud, but I heard his "ad victoriam" in my head after she gave him the order.

She turned to me, and I dreaded hearing what she had to say. I'm not going to join the Minutemen. But if she'd asked me to… Of course, she understands. Sheila smiled. "Nick, the Minutemen will always need friends… and I'll always need your company." I shouldn't have worried. "When someone needs to do something very dangerous and there's no one else to do it… well, I always want you at my back."

It's petty, but I enjoyed the look on Danse's face—a mix of envy, irritation, bemusement, and horror.

She sighed and sat down, looking at us. "Nick knows a little of this, but I'm going to tell you all some things I don't want to leave this room. My son Shaun is alive, but he is not the boy who was in Diamond City with his kidnapper. My son is a grown man, aged, with a terminal illness… and he is the leader of the Institute. I… I'm not ready to talk about this much, but you deserved to know. And let me be clear. Shaun is the enemy."

She stood up. "Dismissed," she said. "Nick, I need to speak with you. We'll all be talking about this vision over the next few days."

The others filed out, leaving me with her, and I walking up to her, letting her start.

"I scared you by not explaining before I left," she said. "I'm sorry." She moved into my arms. I held her close for seven minutes, 51 seconds. I listened to the sound of her breath and smelled the soap in her clean hair. Twice I let my hand caress that hair. She pulled away, kissed my cheek, and walked out. I followed shortly after.

 _Author's note: Dansy-Pants made me laugh, Sherlockian. I should slip that in somewhere. Recent guest—thank you! I hadn't known that FanFic has finally added Fallout 4 characters for tagging. Huzzah! Probably three chapters left at this point._


	9. Chapter 8

March 18, 2293

Yeah, it's been almost two months since I updated this journal. What to say? Sheila's plans for the Minutemen are coming to fruition. She's personally traveled to every allied settlement in the Commonwealth—19 of them at this point. I'm still not convinced taking me with her was the best move. Folks in the settlement aren't too trusting of synths, but again, like Diamond City, not looking human made them treat me a little better. Ironically, they trust me because there's no way I'm a synth masquerading as human. Maybe I'll offhandedly mention that the next time I'm around Danse. Eh, that would just be mean. He's been trying. (He's been _very_ trying…) No, seriously, he's been trying to be polite to me, even friendly. It's eerie. I have to stop busting his chops. As far as I can tell, he hasn't flipped his wig in one month, two weeks, six days, and an hour—not even with the recruits. Garvey says he's been a real asset. I think I know why. Now that's Danse is a "Minuteman," he understands his place in the pecking order. He also understands that Garvey outranks him. I'm not sure why he's being polite to me, unless it's that I've been around a lot less.

That could be it. We've not spent too much time at the Castle. We've been on the move. Surprisingly, 19 out of 19 settlements have agreed to Sheila's vision, and they're actually excited about it. Each settlement has already signed up three volunteers, some more, and they've all pledged to host Minutemen on patrols. Sheila's made it clear that it's all got to be voluntary, including the hospitality. Nobody should be forced to host Minutemen. Apparently, the third amendment to the Constitution of the United States said that no soldiers would be quartered in private homes without the owners' consent. I may have made fun of her, just a little, for her strict adherence to the Constitution of a long gone country. She took that mostly well, but I did have to hear a lecture between Finch Farm and Croup Manor on why the rule of law is the most important feature of a functioning society. Without rule of law, the strong and powerful have nothing holding them back and the weak and powerless have nothing to protect them. Laws mean that everyone is—at least in theory—held to the same standards of conduct and action… and that's what makes us better than mongrel dogs, yao guai, and supermutants.

Now I'm realizing that she has _me_ sounding like a lawyer, spouting off that legal gobbledygook.

Damn lawyers.

Sheila sent one-third of the volunteers to the Castle and told the others to be ready in four months. Ever the eager beaver, Danse is going to have his hands full with new recruits, and Preston is getting that taste of being in charge of a large organization that Sheila mentioned earlier. Shaw has taken a few others to do tours of the ruined state house and the monument to Bunker Hill, and they're compiling what they find. As pre-war survivors, Sheila and I have offered a few corrections to the narratives, but even better, Shaw's in cahoots with a pair of ghouls who were history teachers before the bombs fell. They've joined the cause and live at the Castle now. They're writing a textbook history, calling it _The Commonwealth and What Came Before._ Sheila loves this. Her new brainchild is creating a college, perhaps adjacent to the castle, perhaps back in Sanctuary, perhaps somewhere else. She says that education in the sciences, in history, in _literature_ should be available to the Commonwealth, even if they're starting over, even if they've lost so much of what was known before the war. There's something about the way she says it, that "education needs to be available to anyone for the good of everyone," that told me the Institute doesn't see education this way, and that may be what's driving her. I asked her what she saw her eventual role, and she smiled, getting a distant look in her eyes. "That school is going to be what I leave the Commonwealth," she said. "I won't have more children, and the one I had has decided to terrify and violate the Commonwealth rather than help it. My legacy has to be something else, something that stands against everything the Institute has done—no, not just that, against everything it _stands for_." I didn't answer that.

We held this conversation about a month ago as Sheila and I cleared out a spot for a new settlement and stayed there a few days, putting up infrastructure. My past as a Diamond City handyman is coming in useful—who knew? I'm still not convinced that Hangman's Alley is the ideal spot for a settlement. I pointed out the drawbacks, mainly how vulnerable the place is, and Sheila set about trying to reduce the vulnerabilities. That night, tired from dragging bodies out of the new settlement area, she told me that we needed the location strategically. That's fair. It's central to a lot of areas we frequent. I won't deny that spending three days alone with Sheila was a pleasure, even if the work was hard and I'm dubious about the long-term prospects of Hangman's Alley. We had talked about the college she wants to found, and I thought about what she said.

"I heard you earlier, and I know I didn't answer. I wasn't brushing you off. I don't want to bust your chops, but you know that you're not too old to have more children," I said, sitting on the new bed next to hers. We'd made both of the beds that day, plus four more. "I'm not saying you should replace Shaun. God knows you can't replace a child. But you're one of the healthiest people in the Commonwealth, and you're young yet. You wouldn't have trouble finding a partner. In my book, you're a dreamboat… and I suspect there are a lot of other books with your page in 'em."

She half-smiled and moved across to sit next to me on the bed. "No," she said. "It's not just that motherhood didn't agree with me the first time around. It's that I wouldn't have a child unless I could bring him up with someone I loved and trusted as much as I loved and trusted Nate. And nobody who could father a child with me fits that bill." She looked at me, and the look was intense.

"You could raise a child on your own, but you know you wouldn't have to. Any child of yours would be loved by Danse, Garvey, Deacon, Des, and more. And me, of course," I added, including myself as an afterthought.

Putting her head on my shoulder, she sighed. "I know. Maybe someday, but there's too much to do now, and it's too important. I'm just glad to have so many people I can depend on—especially you." Then she laughed. She lifted her head, looked up at me and winked. "We'll make something out of the Commonwealth yet, Nick," she teased, trying—and failing—to do an impression of my voice.

I laughed anyway. "Okay, Sheila, you're getting punchy. Time for the human to sleep."

"Why do our conversations always seem to end with you telling me to sleep?"

"Because you like to have them late at night, I don't sleep at all, and you don't sleep as much as you should."

"Fair enough." She yawned, and I tucked her into bed, sitting beside her until her breaths turned even and regular.

How much love can the heart of a synth hold? Quite a bit, apparently. More than you'd think.

 _Author's note: Three chapters remain, and one shall be terribly short. I've known where this is going for a few weeks now and I'm excited to finally get to the denouement. Reviewers, thank you. I might not have kept it going after the first chapter or two without encouragement._


	10. Chapter 9

April 22, 2293

This may be my last entry. No, it _is_ my last entry. No more lies to myself. I have two things to say, and then I'll put down some details, and _then_ I'll walk away from this head-in-the-clouds project. I've been a fool. And the woman who destroyed the Institute does not deserve to be lied about in a friend's journal, even a private journal. So first off, I've been lying in this journal. Second, Sheila—with some help from the Railroad—has destroyed the Institute and personally killed Shaun. Damn.

Right. It's time to stop fantasizing about what I wish were true and enjoy what is true. Her friendship means more to me than anything. But the truth isn't what I've been writing. She never said my name while she slept. I've never touched her face or hair. Though we spent Christmas together, there were no quiet sighs. I haven't had my arm around her. Sure, most of this has been exactly what happened. Everything except touching her, feeling her, sharing an unspoken love with her.

I _want_ to hold her close, of course. Always will, I suspect.

Oh, I do love her. That's true enough. Has been from almost the first moment we met, and not _just_ because she rescued this old synth. And she… she cares about me, I know. Calls me more human than any human she's known. But I'm not sure there's room in her heart for romance after Nate. I've enjoyed imagining that there's more to our relationship, but there isn't. And I wouldn't want that for her, anyway. When she does move on enough to love deeply again, I want her to have someone worthy of her. And that's not someone with half-skin, exposed wires, and only one tattered outfit. What do I have to offer her? "Come share my detective agency. I have a twin bed with no room for another one, but I don't really use it anyway. Also I'm a cop from hundreds of years ago and the Institute made and trashed me." No. She's better than that. Better than me.

I may still dream about touching her hair and pulling her close, but that doesn't mean I should ever do it—and I definitely shouldn't write about it and call it my "journal," either. Maybe it should be "Nick Valentine, personal fantasies."

Well, this isn't a fantasy. Sheila realized that Shaun and the Institute were a permanent threat to the Commonwealth. We talked about it, about this step she was about to take. I told her I supported her, but I understood if she decided not to go through it with it. "You're the one who told me that this would be necessary," she said grimly. I racked my brain, filing through my conversations with her to remember what she was talking about. "You're the one who told me about the provisional government massacre," she added. Oh. That. Yeah. "Nick," she added, "Shaun lied to me about it. He told me that the Institute had tried to help create a stable Commonwealth government but that bickering and infighting led to 'disaster.' That's when I knew. Either the Institute's representatives hadn't let the director in on it, which seems highly unlikely, or he was using partial truths to manipulate and mislead me. It was sadly obvious which was true. I don't know if the synth malfunctioned or if it was ordered to kill everyone at the CPG, but does it matter? It doesn't. The Institute has to be stopped. They either intend to rule and exploit the whole Commonwealth by terror and plunder… or they're both incompetent and determined to cover their incompetence. If you play with fire and can't admit and offer restoration when you burn someone's house down, is it really any different from burning it down deliberately?"

"Sheila?" I said. And I really did say it, even though I didn't cup her face in my hands and look into her eyes the way I wanted to. "This is your son. Can you live with yourself if you do this?"

"I gave birth to him, Nick. But he's… he's not my son. I will always mourn what could have been, but _my_ son would have been brought up with respect for all people. Also, I know how you feel about it, but he also would've been brought up to respect the law I spent _my_ life studying and his father spent _his_ life defending. The kindest thing I can do for the monster he's become is to end it and destroy his hideous legacy." I saw her eyes harden and knew the decision was made.

"I'll come with you," I said.

"It's going to be dangerous," she said, half-smiling. "And I know that you'll come anyway. I accept. Just don't… don't make me walk out of there without you."

"So many questions I'm never going to get answered," I mused. "But I've done well enough so far. And I'll have your back while you have mine. It's how we've worked and how we'll still work."

We did it, then. With the rest of the Railroad, I teleported into the Institute when Sheila, already on the inside, gave us the signal. It was a chaotic battle, but I found her quickly and we moved into our familiar search-for-threat patterns without discussing it. I stood quietly by when she talked to her aged, infirm son. I watched her back while she placed the bomb in their nuclear reactor, and I ran with her to get the hell out of Dodge before the whole shebang blew. I stood by her side when we watched from a distance and saw—and slightly _felt_ —the impact. She made a couple of other stops, several to synths. I realized what she was doing: she was reminding herself of why that drastic step had been necessary. Seeing the palpable relief and sense of freedom in many faces as we gave them the news, that was a balm to the aching heart.

She then asked me to come with her back to the Glowing Sea to give Virgil the information. Not only is he completely well now, with not even a tinge of green to his complexion, but he's also no longer hunted. I shouldn't have been surprised when Sheila recruited Brian Virgil to teach in her new college. He's obviously one hell of a bioscientist. I also saw the way he looked at her. Maybe he would be good for her. He's a smart man who's been through tragedy.

At least looking like this means nobody would question my close friendship with her. I doubt that any jealous boyfriend… or husband… would begrudge her the time she spends working with me.

It kills me to think like this.

It's not fair to her _not_ to think like this.

No more entries. Maybe I can take some more cases… alone. Surely there are a few back home in Fenway by now, and if not there, Goodneighbor. Maybe they'll be dangerous. I'll check back here in a month to see if she needs me, and if not… maybe I won't check in for a few months, and then a few years, and maybe this ache in my nonexistent heart will ease off on the throttle a bit.


	11. Chapter 10

May 13, 2293

Nick, I owe you an apology. I noticed you've been a bit down, so I hacked your terminal and read your journal. I'm sorry.

But now you owe me an explanation. We need to talk. Soon.

-S

 _Author's note:_ _ **A final chapter is coming. Please reserve judgment until then.**_ _Also, I warned you that Nick was an unreliable narrator…_


	12. Chapter 11

July 28, 2293

I almost deleted these entries, all of them. But I didn't, and she found them, and she left me a note. I've left it intact. We had our first real fight when I finally did as she asked and met her to talk.

Maybe a straight-up narrative is the best way to tell this tale. I went back to Diamond C and sure enough, there was a case. Valerie Lord asked me to look into her daughter Gina's disappearance. It was after the Institute's demise, after all, so surely they weren't still abducting people. Her daughter had taken up with a ghoul in Goodneighbor. The two of them are in love. Bully for them. Told her mama, got slapped for my trouble, but then she paid me, and I reunited mother and daughter. Pretty sure Gina was slapped same as I was but a few more times.

It wasn't the case I was craving, though. I'm glad to have alleviated Val's worries, but come on. I gave the caps to Ellie and went back to Goodneighbor to see if anyone there had a need for a detective. Hancock obliged. I'd barely reentered the city when he approached, falling into step beside me.

"Twice in one day?" he asked. "Is this a record, Mr. Valentine?"

"That case is closed, but I find myself a little restless," I said.

"Heard you took up with the woman who brought down the Institute. Heard you were actually there when it went down. Heard you were part of that team."

"Your information network continues to surprise," I replied.

"I could use a hand with a sensitive matter," he said, not looking at me. "Might be dangerous, and you might not want to take anyone else with you—leastways not anyone alive. I figure me and you, maybe a few other ghouls, we could go together. Radiation won't hurt you or us."

"What's this about, then?"

"Well, one other thing I heard. I heard that your girl's hoping to start a college. Kind of appropriate given that she destroyed the only remaining seat of learning. Did I hear that right, too?"

"You did."

"Then I know what you can get her for Christmas."

"Christmas is six months away."

"So?" Hancock looked over at me. I honestly don't know if I'd rather be a ghoul or a synth. Pros and cons to each.

"She's… not my girl."

"Figure of speech. You want to help her or not?"

"Okay, John, tell me what you're proposing."

"Southeast of Sentinel in the Glowing Sea, I've got a lead on a library that had a paranoid librarian. There _may_ be some undamaged college textbooks in what _may_ be a fallout shelter that _may_ have kept important texts in lead-lined safes."

I absorbed this for a moment, nodding. "I'm in. Let's go."

I won't bore you with the details, but Daisy came with us as well as a half-dozen other ghouls, all paid by Hancock. Took us the better part of a month to get there and back, but I had sixty-two books to give to the college. One is the complete works of Shakespeare. The trip was even more worthwhile than I'd anticipated. We didn't lose anyone, everyone was well paid by the mayor, and Hancock found a pen and wrote all our names in the front cover of the Bard's text under the heading "Donation by." He made me promise that I would tell Sheila that he did this and wanted to thank her again for that Bobbi matter. I have no idea what the Bobbi matter is. Hancock wouldn't tell me, and Sheila just grimaced and shook her head.

Did Sheila kill Bobbi No-Nose? It's not like her, but I suppose it's possible.

So I lugged a trunk of books from Goodneighbor to the Castle. That seemed to attract the raiders as more than the usual number came out to play. I killed 18 of them in that one trek.

When I got back to the Castle, Sheila was meeting with Shaw and the two historian ghouls. I took the trunk inside the walls and went for a walk. I hadn't walked for five minutes before she came up to me.

"Thought you were in a meeting," I said, maybe a bit gruffly.

"I heard you came back. They don't really need me at this point anyway. How have you been? _Where_ have you been?"

I looked at her. She looked good. She always looks good. "Took a case in Diamond City, helped Hancock with a cockamamie plan, came right back here. What's it to you?"

I'd be lying if I said I didn't see some hurt flash in her eyes. "Nick, please promise me something."

"Anything specific?" I growled.

"Yes. You talk to me before you leave again. That's all I'm asking."

I hesitated, but it was warming to know she cared and I love the dame, after all. "Next time I'm about to head off, I'll talk to you first if you're here."

She reached up and touched my face—really. Her soft hand closed in on the skin of my cheek. "Thank you." I didn't understand the look on her face, but I felt her hand in a gentle slide down my cheek before she pulled away.

I had to change the mood. I was feeling a strange sensation—tightness in my chest that was clearly illusory, as I don't have the organs to react to the brain that way. Felt it nonetheless, and it wasn't comfortable. I wasn't comfortable. "I brought you something. Are you ready to see it? It took me, Hancock, Daisy, and five other ghouls to carry it out of the Glowing Sea." She agreed, and I continued, "It's for you. We went out there to get it for you. I think they want you to kind of consider it a donation from Goodneighbor for your college project." I led her to the alcove where I'd left the trunk.

"Nice trunk… classic steamer…" She knelt beside it, and then she opened it. The look on her face… She gingerly picked them up, one by one, and opened them, checking spines and text. "They're pristine," she whispered. She smiled at the collection of Dickens and oohed at the history textbooks and the Federalist Papers and laughed aloud at the Kama Sutra (in which Hancock had been particularly interested). A translation of the Bhagavad Gita, the King James Bible, poetry compilations, Frankenstein, Dracula, Jules Verne, Edgar Allen Poe… she went lovingly through each one, growing more and more excited.

Then she found the Shakespeare, and she clutched it to her chest and cried. I didn't know what to do. I knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to me, wrapped her arms around me, wouldn't let go. This actually happened. This was real. This was me holding a weeping Sheila for 32 minutes, 48 seconds. I've seen her kill people, I've seen her say goodbye to her disappointment of a son, I've seen her destroy an entire organization, I've seen her organize other organizations, I've seen her comforting parents who have lost children, I've seen her with the corpse of her beloved Nate, and this is the first time, the _first_ time, I have seen her _cry._ Something about these books opened a piece of her that she had locked away. I tried to stroke her hair, but I don't think she noticed. After 32 minutes, I said, "You _are_ happy about this, right?" And she laughed finally, lifting her head from my shoulder, not releasing me from her arms.

"I'm going to have to wash your coat," she said with another laugh.

"Check the inside cover of the Bard," I told her, and she opened it and read Hancock's list of names.

"We're going to have a library at this college," she said, joy in her reddened eyes. "We'll name it for Hancock, and everyone who accompanied him will have a separate bookcase named for them. Nick… Thank you. Thank you so much."

"That's swell. He's going to like that. Probably too much." Something about making her laugh makes me feel light enough to fly.

"I…" She looked at me and shook her head. "I don't deserve you," she said.

I didn't know I could still snort as a synth, but guess what?

She went back to Shaw to share the news of new books, and I could hear them oohing and ahhing. I happened to go back to my terminal, and that's when I saw it. You know. Her message. She read the journal. She wants to talk.

Well, shit.

I immediately ran through the conversation we just had, refiltering every moment with the new knowledge that she knew how I felt. That promise she asked me to make. Her look of hurt when I snapped at her. Her wanting to know where I'd been like a—like a lover. Or a partner. Like someone who deserved to know. The way she clung to me and cried. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Why didn't she mention this when we talked just now? What's she going to say? Dammit.

I didn't realize I was heading for her until I was. I saw her showing off the books to Shaw—the ghouls were engrossed reading the text about the Middle Ages—and I slowed my approach. I didn't know what I wanted to say.

"Nick!" She waved me over enthusiastically. "Ronnie, Nick was with Hancock when they got them."

"That's good work, Valentine," Shaw said, clapping my shoulder in approval.

"Thanks, but it was Hancock's idea and he led the team." I didn't want to talk about books just then. I wanted—I wasn't quite sure what I wanted, except that I couldn't have it.

"You probably carried more than your share of the books, though, eh?" At that, I just smiled.

Sheila looked at me and saw something in my face, or maybe she heard it in my voice. "Oh, Nick… did you want to talk?" she asked directly.

"Sure," I said, not meeting her eyes. "We probably should."

"Ronnie, I'll be—"

"Take your time, General," Shaw said. "I have _plenty_ to read. I think we need to record these on holotapes, maybe broadcast them on Freedom Radio."

Sheila's eyes widened. "Travis might want to broadcast some too… Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. Nick?"

"Right here as usual," I said. She took my hand and led me down into the abandoned tunnels. There was a bench seat that she patted as she sat down.

"I wanted us to be able to… talk," she said as I sat next to her gingerly.

"You read what I wrote. What's there to say? Probably a hundred people you've met feel the same way. Garvey and Danse, for starters. And Virgil, as I mentioned…"

"Garvey and Danse?" She laughed. "Nick!"

"What?"

"Preston and Danse are together. They have been for months." She laughed again at the look on my face. "And they're good for each other, too." I _still_ am having trouble believing this, and it makes me look differently on those times Preston took my side against Danse. I was processing this when she shook her head. "Even if they weren't, they're both dear friends and nothing more."

I nodded, not sure what to say, but she continued.

"Nick…"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I… wrote about you like—"

"Stop it. Just stop. Why couldn't you be honest with me? Why didn't you just tell me how you felt?"

"I don't even have a proper body. I'm certainly no Nate. I'm in no position to woo you." I lifted my skeletal hand and flexed it in front of her. "You deserve better. You deserve more."

"I could _hit_ you, you idiot." She's never spoken to me like that before. I looked at her and saw genuine anger in the quirk of her mouth downward, the narrowness of her eyes. Who knows what to say to that? I didn't. I waited her out. "Nick, you are my _everything_. When I stumbled out of the vault, I kind of tripped into my new life. I happened across the last of the minutemen, and one of them happened to tell me to go to Diamond City and when I was there, I was told to find you. Everything from then on… you were with me at every moment. You were with me when I joined the Brotherhood of Steel. You were with me when I joined the Railroad. You were with me when I _quit_ the Brotherhood. You took Kellogg's memories into yourself just to help me. You went with me into the Glowing Sea to find Virgil. You went _back_ with me into the Glowing Sea. You were the one at my back when I took down the Institute. You are the one who goes with me to help settlements. Do you think you're _disposable_? Do you think I keep you around because you're _convenient_?" She was getting louder and, it seemed, angrier. She stood up, stood over me, and kept yelling. "I have missed you the last few weeks! It didn't feel right not having you to talk everything through with me! I love you, and you weren't here! And then I find your journal? Your journal of fantasies? You should call it Nick Valentine's Journal of Missed Opportunities! So many times you _could_ have touched me and you _wanted_ to touch me and I _wanted_ you to touch me—but you _didn't_ because you have been a bloody _coward_! She pointed at me and hit my chest with her fingertip. "And then you go into a ridiculous self-pity rant, poor poor me the broken synth, and in so many words you are threatening to seek out danger because you don't value your own damn life? You're going to pull away from me because I don't return the feelings you haven't spoken aloud?" She poked me again. " _I won't have it_ , Nick. I won't. You—"

Look, I love her speeches. She's damn good at speeches. She must really have been one helluva lawyer back in the day. She controls her voice and her pitch and knows how to build tension. She grows increasingly dramatic, and it's captivating to watch. But not only did I not particularly like this speech, I was also concerned that poking might graduate to shoving and her volume might attract other attention. She was right there in my face, so I did the only sensible thing when faced with the woman I love screaming about how much of a coward I am not to have made a move. I grabbed her, pulled her close, and kissed her as hard as I could with my synthetic mouth, which also involved my synthetic tongue.

I appreciate how she had taken us into the closest thing approximating privacy at the Castle.

I'm not going into details—oh ho, definitely not, especially since my terminal is apparently hackable. (Are you reading this, woman? Honestly, you are a nosy one. It's nothing you don't already know). But we were down there for a couple of hours, talking and—not talking.

Word spreads fast at the Castle. A green Minuteman recruit giggled when she saw me approaching that evening, and that was the beginning of the end. Knowing glances, stifled snickers, the occasional elbow… but worst of all was Danse. A few days later after Sheila had made our partnership a little more public, Danse pulled me aside and gave me an hourlong lecture on prewar wedding customs. Ridiculous! I lived before the war—he didn't! Hell, back in the day, I was in the process of planning a wedding.. _._ That synth is insufferable. Annoying. _Pushy_.

Yes, I had been planning a wedding before the war... Which I suppose brings this back around to Jenny. Jenny would've been in awe of Sheila's forceful personality, and Sheila would've been as protective of sweet Jenny as she is of the rest of the Commonwealth. Seems weird to wish they could've met, but I do. But Jenny wouldn't have begrudged me this happiness, and I hope whatever's in the afterlife, she's found peace. Hell, old Nick might be there with her. Cheers to them.

I love my fiery lawyer. Yeah, soon enough, I'll ask her to make it official. Garvey can preside. I'd pay a hundred caps to see Shaw wearing a dress and carrying a floral bouquet.

I'm toying with the idea of asking Doc Amari if she's got another synth body that could house me like she did for that French-sounding robot. But that's for another day. Today, I'll just enjoy what is. Kellogg said you only know you're happy when you look back on it. I'm proving him wrong every day.

-30-

 _Author's note: Thanks again to the reviewers. Suile Glas, ReluctantInquiry, Ulura, Sherlockian082994, Lonelyroad68, twistedrosalia, starliequinn, FalloutGamerGirl, Wingedmidnight88, Cris, Marianne Bennet, PandaGirlPlaysTheTuba, Stone-coldRose, Countess of Monleigh, themisticmist2000, ThePurpleDragoness, TBM1, BecTheBurger, BenRG, QQuina, K, coduss, elinska, OrionAlphaCentauri—and all the guest reviewers, too. I was going to stop with chapter one, but the responses encouraged me to see it to completion. Maybe I'll write another fanfic in the future—_ after _I finish this dissertation (hopefully in time for spring Ph.D. graduation). I teach media studies and speech at a public university, and the -30- is a bit of a nod to my journalism background. It signals the completion of a story._


	13. Author's Note on the Sequel

_Since I played through Far Harbor, more adventures with Nick and Sheila seemed to present themselves. Spoilers for FH follow not only through the rest of this note but also through the rest of this fic. If you're going to play FH, don't read this first. If you *aren't* going to play FH, some of it won't make much sense._

 _To me, the most interesting part of Far Harbor from a Nick Valentine-lover's perspective is that DiMA's own issues with memory mean that Nick will have (and perhaps is having) the same issues. Being immortal is all well and good, but what if your brain fills up and pushes old memories out? That would be disconcerting to say the least. As I played through, I realized that Nick would be far more off-balance than he had been during the main game: upset, questioning, even frenetic as he attempts to get answers about his past, present, and future. Of course, his wife will be there at his side._

 _Other reasons I'm writing this sequel:_

 _DiMA's interactions with the Sole Survivor suggest something that I've long suspected and want to examine._

 _I toyed with something at the end of the first fic and want to see it through._

 _I want to explore the biggest party in the Commonwealth—the General of the Minutemen marrying Diamond City's beloved detective._

 _The will-they-or-won't-they-and-how-will-they-get-together always seems easier for me to write than an established couple who have love and romance but lack the drama of romantic tension. This is therefore good writing practice._

 _Reviews are like a drug, aren't they? It's embarrassing how a good review uplifts one's whole day. So thank you to the people who have reviewed in the past and those who may feel moved to review now._


	14. January 10, 2296

Nick Valentine, Personal Journal

January 10, 2296

If I'd known then what I know now, I might've told Ellie where she could put that new case and put the kibosh on it before getting us tangled up in this mess. Still, if everything I've learned is correct, then my keeping a journal just became a hell of a lot more important to me. Turns out my memory may not be all it could be. Didn't think my mind being all wet was the real danger of being a toaster, but here's the punchline: apparently, second gen synths have limited cranial capacity. When it fills up, memories start dissipating.

It started with that case, a "simple" missing person case. God knows they've been my bread and butter in the Commonwealth. Nothing about this case said "By the way, Nick, going to change your life with this one. Turn your head upside down. Make you rethink everything you thought you knew." Should I start with Ellie or skip ahead to the Nakanos? Dammit, I hate this. I hate feeling like I need to write down the full story because I might not remember it later.

Guess I'll just do what I've always done, retell the salient points and use this as a way to work out how I feel about them—maybe with a few more details than I'd normally include, given this memory issue. Which means… About three weeks ago, a very pregnant Ellie gave me the first clue that something was wrong when she told us about the case. Kenji Nakano, she said. I remembered the name nagging at the edge of my memory, but I couldn't grasp the details—couldn't picture him. Couldn't remember where I'd heard it. Did it bother me? Hell, yes, it bothered me, but I put that out of mind while Sheila and I trekked up to meet him on the northeastern coast. We arrived at the Nakano residence and talked to Kenji and his wife, Rei. Their daughter Kasumi was the case. Missing, possibly lured away, possibly ran away on her own.

Oh, and Kenji did know me.

He remembered me, had spent time with me, _knew_ me. Post-Institute. Apparently I'd asked for and received his help in the form of much-needed boat transportation. But I… didn't remember him. I didn't know it was possible for someone outside the Institute to know me from memory when I didn't recall them. As we talked, I started to get a few flashes of memories, but they were dim and frustratingly slender. Us in a boat. His laugh, rough and cynical, the good humor mixed up with bitterness and determination. A feeling of danger, a vague recollection that everything had gone to hell. That was all. Once again Sheila proved herself to be the best damn partner a synth—or anyone—could ever have. She covered for my lack of memory like we had coordinated it, asking Kenji about his history with me. It was enough to let me bluff remembering him and his help way back when, and then we turned to the current case.

I admit, that put me on edge from the outset. Gummed up the works in my head, messed with my focus. I didn't talk to Sheila about it. What was I going to say that she didn't already know? She's not stupid and she reads me like she read a courtroom back in the day. When we were sailing up to Far Harbor, she was quiet (and that's rare enough. She's a talker. Normally, I don't mind, but I didn't want to talk when we started this trip, and she picked up on that mood without my asking. Love that woman).

We sat in the boat together as we started the trip, the course already set in, my arms tight around her. I admit, I was brooding (that's what she calls it). What if I forget her? What if she dies and what if I'm still kicking around… and then I forget _her_? And old Nick, flesh-and-blood Nick, and Jenny, and Eddie Winter… Sure, I've thought about how I wish Nick-the-cop's life wouldn't hang over mine raising so many questions about who and what _I_ am. I didn't know how bad identity questions could get. Would I even be me anymore if I forget old Nick's life? Jenny? Eddie Winter? _Her_? So are we the sum of our memories or something more, something different? Are we something less if we lose those memories? No, I haven't lost that tendency to ruminate or to get irritated with myself for ruminating. Maybe all _I_ am is a pile of worries punctuated by the occasional case. I'm sure the woman would disagree, but then, what's she going to say?

The whole trip took twenty hours, and after about half that (most of which the woman slept through while I held her—she never gets enough sleep), something eased up inside me. Maybe it was just being able to smell and stroke her hair. Whatever the reason, we used the second half of the time more… productively… than the first. She was enthusiastic and in a very good mood. I pointed it out and suggested it was because she was actually well-rested for the first time in months, and she rolled her eyes and asked me if I wanted to take advantage of it or not.

I'm not an idiot.

Anyway. If it hadn't been for that eerie experience with Kenji knowing me when I didn't know him, I wouldn't have believed that DiMA's memory limitations could also apply to me. And that's why here I am back to journaling. Also, if you're reading this, woman, I don't want to hear your theory on why this makes me repeat myself unless you want to hear more about why it would be better for both of us if you made a habit of getting more sleep. That's what I thought. Where was I? Right, right. Meeting DiMA… That was like looking into a not-so-funhouse mirror. Me but not me. An irritating, sanctimonious, less attractive version of me. With slightly more skin, a way worse hairdo, and no ears. Who claims to know me. This is becoming a theme, and I don't like it.

Before I go on, though, it's been two and a half years since my last entry. I should make a few notes about the interim period before I get back to meeting DiMA. Just over a year ago, the woman and I got married. Probably no better place to start than that—next entry.


	15. January 11, 2296

January 11, 2296

Backing up

Sheila's Home Plate is home base for us. Diamond City is centrally located, has been my home for quite a while, and offers us some genuine privacy (unlike, say, the Castle). Both of us remember Fenway from back in the day, so there's the nostalgia factor. Home Plate is a sweet piece of real estate, and we've got it fixed up right nice. The woman and I even decided to move the agency to Home Plate and give the agency space to Ellie and Danny. Those two kids and their third on the way needed an actual home. They were officially living with Danny's dad, who barely had enough room for himself and Danny, but in reality, they were using the agency as their crashing pad, and I don't blame them. We gave it to them as a wedding gift, and their gratitude and relief were so embarrassing I felt we probably waited too long to make that move. Hugging Danny, Sheila said that she still owed him 50 caps from that day they met, and the two of them laughed. I've asked her about it three times, and each time, she manages to distract me without answering. Good thing I'm not investigating _her_.

Home Plate has so much space that we easily took the right side and recreated the agency setup there except with more room and three desks. Good thing McDonough's gone so he won't complain about the sign being moved to a more prominent locale. Sheila joked about Ellie's long commute, which of course necessitated a lengthy explanation to Ellie about what a commute was before the war. I think half the reason the woman loves me is that I understand her references.

When we're in town, we try to take in the sunset on the roof, smelling Power Noodles. Sometimes we talk about her plans for the Minutemen, sometimes we talk about my old cases, and sometimes we just talk about the same Nuka-Cola billboards. We have a couple of chairs next to each other and a radio to listen to Radio Freedom, or to Travis if it's too hazy… or if I think she hasn't gotten enough rest lately or worse, she's injured. If Freedom's on and they announce that someone's in trouble, I can't keep her from going. Best not to tempt her.

Some of the best moments I've had in the Commonwealth are there on top of Home Plate with just the two of us. I knew that's where I wanted to propose, the perfect balance of private conversations amid the center of activity. I planned the speech for days, throwing in two quotes from Poe as I struggled to put into words what she means to me.

I also made her an engagement ring of sorts. I knew the woman wouldn't want someone else's repurposed ring. She's too sensitive to dreams and lives lost from the war—and sometimes, just a little superstitious. Found what I think was a diamond in a case in a desk in a safe in Fallon's and set it into a hammered aluminum band. I made sure it was flush—she couldn't wear something that might get caught when she's fighting for her life, which happens once, twice a week minimum. So it's a simple aluminum ring, but there's a diamond deep set into it.

It was late in July, year before last (so 2294), when Sheila and I sat on the top of Home Plate at dusk. I dropped quietly out of my chair, got down on one knee, and looked up at her. It took her a moment to notice, and then she did a classic double-take. "Sweetheart, I have great faith in fools; self-confidence, my friends call it. So here goes nothin', or maybe everything. My favorite former icicle, got a question to ask you. All I've wanted was a life where I have something I can call my own, and then you pulled me outta that vault… and just being with you, I know I'm one hell of a lucky synth. You make the world better. You've given hope to the whole Commonwealth… but to nobody more than me. We love with a love that is more than love. Sheila, will you make me the happiest toaster in the world?" I held up the ring to her.

She gasped, which wasn't a good sign, but then she threw her arms around me and laughed, which was. "Of course, Nick. I love you! I love you." I managed to slip the ring on her finger, and she looked at it, her expression thoughtful. "I like it. And it's practical. I'm impressed you got the size right. My fingers are thick."

"First of all, doll, they're muscular because of your crazy lifestyle. Second, I'm a synth. I can calculate the width of your fingers. I've spent enough time with them." I grinned and wiggled what passes for my eyebrows at her and she rewarded that with a blush. "It's an aluminum band with a diamond. I made it because it's you—you're my diamond in the rough grey of the Commonwealth."

Yeah, I know it's sappy, but dammit, this was my engagement night. Maybe you had to be there to feel the full force of the emotion. There are so many details I want to cling to. I want to remember the setting sun reflected in her dark eyes when I looked up at her from one knee. I want to remember that she was wearing that pretty light blue dress that she sometimes wears on quiet days. She says that it's cooler than her usual outfits when we both know that she wears it because she knows I like it. I want to remember how I stunned her speechless with that line about the ring. I definitely want to remember how a little extra glassiness seeped into her eyes when she looked at me then, and she blinked a few times more than usually. She didn't cry, not exactly (she's only cried once in front of me), but I'd gotten to her. She cleared her throat. "I can't believe you used aluminum," she said, just a little waver in her voice. "I need to upgrade the left leg of my power armor and I need aluminum..." Her arms slid around my neck and pulled me close into a hug. My heart may have flipped a few times.

"Well, if you want, you can melt it down and use it. I won't mind—"

"Don't you dare say that," she whispered, pulling me tight enough that it would've hurt if I were human. I love it when she does that, like we're so close we might merge into one. After the woman cleared her throat, she pulled away. "How do you want to do this?" she asked. "Obviously there's no court system or justice of the peace… we could have Pastor Clements do it, but honestly, maybe this weekend, we could walk to the Castle. I think I'd like to have Preston—"

"I want to do it right," I said, cutting her off and delicately cupping her cheek with my metal fingers. "You don't know how much everyone loves you. We should have a ceremony at the Castle and a reception here, and you should have bridesmaids and the whole shebang. I remember planning a wedding… it's all about the bride." I kissed her cheek with as much gentleness as I could manage, grateful again for tactile sensors in my lips. How her skin stays soft with this life I don't know, but she is _all_ woman.

"I didn't even do a big wedding before the war." She laughed, shaking her head. "But I'm not a first-time bride."

"You're not the same woman who got married before the war." Even I didn't know how right I was, but I knew that argument wouldn't work on this woman. "We're going to do it however you want, but I think you should give your friends a chance to weigh in. God knows the Commonwealth hasn't had much to celebrate since the war, but you've given them hope, and people know that. I suspect they'll surprise you and tell you that everyone could use a good old-fashioned party." See, I know her, and I know how to manipulate her. Ask her to do something for herself, and she never will. Ask her to do something for the Commonwealth, and no force in creation can hold her back.

Sure enough, she started to answer and stopped, looking thoughtful. "It can't hurt to ask a few people what they think. But tonight… *Tonight* I'm a newly engaged woman, and I'm going to enjoy the hell out of that. So come closer." Then she grabbed my tie to pull me closer, and I definitely have to remember that _that_ was a good night. Someday, she's going to grow old and die, and all I'll have are these memories (at least, I hope I will). It will be unfathomably sweet pain.


End file.
